


Day 21: Council of Kings

by ofplanet_earth



Series: 30 days of Barduil [21]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle of Five Armies, M/M, That tent scene, what should have happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:12:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil doesn't understand why he's so drawn to this grimy, mortal human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 21: Council of Kings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jennacorinth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennacorinth/gifts).



> so. hm. this one didn't turn out exactly as I expected. I meant to finish it yesterday but my brain just wasn't cooperating.   
> hopefully, it's better than the jumbled mess I think it is. 
> 
> less than ten days left.   
> I can do this.

Thranduil sat upon his elk some ways away from the broken city of Dale. Nearly three hundred years had passed since Smaug had first set his sights on the Lonely Mountain. Though the valley had regrown while the dragon had slept, the rooftops and towers of the once- great city had been turned to pyres of rubble. Now Smaug was dead, killed by a man with a black arrow and a birthright. Word had reached the Elvenking’s halls quickly, for his scouts had seen the dragon fall from the sky with their own eyes.

Thranduil saw his chance. Long had the heirlooms of his people been held captive, first by dwarves and then by a fire serpent from the north. Both were repugnant, greedy creatures and Thranduil felt little guilt as he ordered his army forward into the valley under the cover of night.

He would reclaim what was his and he would let nothing stand in his way. 

The people of the Long Lake slept in the ruins of Dale, just as their ancestors had taken refuge and rebuilt Old Esgaroth. There was a strange symmetry to the world of men; their lives and their memories too short to remember the failings of their fathers.

But no matter. Perhaps Thranduil did not need anything from them, but these men were simple fishermen and sailers. They were no doubt in need of provisions and— should the dwarves of Erebor choose to betray them— a show of force. Thranduil had ordered carts be filled with food and brought with them to Dale as a show of good faith. He cared little for dwarves, but for men at least, he harboured respect. 

Dawn broke and his army marched through the city like a whisper carried on a calm wind. Thranduil held back at the perimeter until he could hear the men and women and children begin to stir. When at last he entered the city, the bargeman stood in the square. 

But he was no mere bargeman; men decades his elder were turning to him for advice and direction, and he gave it to them with an uneasy grace and a quiet dignity, as though a crown sat heavy and invisible upon his brow already.

So this was the Dragonslayer. The heir of Girion and king in the eyes of his people. A smile crept onto Thranduil’s lips as the man stared in wonder at his army. 

“I heard you needed aid.”

✧

Wizards. Thranduil rolled his eyes to the bowman. For all their years and wisdom they had little common sense; raising alarms without cause, offering council where it was not welcome, and keeping questionable company. A burglar, the dwarves had called this halfling— and a burglar he was indeed, for not only had he stolen the keys to Thranduil’s dungeons but he had taken the Arkenstone from under Thorin Oakenshield’s nose.

Perhaps Mithrandir’s judge of caracter was not so questionable after all. 

A plan was brewing in the Dragonslayer’s mind as he looked upon the Heart of the Mountain, Thranduil could see. HIs eyes were set upon the treasure that had been promised to his people and he would not be dissuaded from his course. They had this in common. Thranduil told him so and watched as the stern lines of his face broke into a coy smile. 

He poured them more wine and bade the man stay a while longer. “A council among kings,” he reasoned. 

“I am no king My Lord.” 

“And yet your people follow you in the wake of such destruction.”

“My people are tired and frightened. They’ve lost their homes and their family and they have nowhere else to turn.”

“And so they turn to you. You, who slew the dragon your ancestor could not. You, whose birthright is not to be a bargeman, but a leader of your people. You, who would seek peace over war. What else does a king require? A crown?” 

The man frowned and dropped his eyes to the goblet in his hands. “A purpose, I suppose.” 

“You have a purpose, Dragonslayer. You began to fulfill it the moment you climbed that bell tower and fired the last black arrow.” 

“Dumb luck and a good shot does not make me a king.” 

Thranduil stood from his chair and crossed his tent to stand before the bargeman. “The people make the king, Bowman. Not a crown or a birthright, but the devotion of the men who follow him.” The man’s eyes met Thranduil’s then, the memory of dragonfire burning bright in the dim lamplight. “You have faced down the greatest terror of your time. Your people would follow you into battle on the morrow without a second thought.” 

“I do not wish to lead them to battle. I wish to lead them home.” 

Thranduil placed his goblet on the table. “I have never met a man like you, Bowman.” 

This drew a laugh from the man’s lips. “I worry you have not met many men, My Lord.” 

“I have met my fair share. They were greedy and easily swayed; eager for power and riches and esteem. They were weak flames extinguished by the slightest wind. You are unlike any of them.” Thranduil watched as he blushed a high and bright shade of red. 

“What am I like, My Lord?” Thranduil took another step closer, took the goblet from the man’s hands and placed it beside his own. His dark eyes were wide and unblinking and they stalked Thranduil’s movements as he might stalk a deer down the sight of an arrow. 

Thranduil took in the sight of the man’s parted lips, the sound of his shallow breath and the heat rising from his body. “Intoxicating,” he whispered. 

Bard reached the extra few centimetres left between them and closed his lips around the Elvenking’s. Thranduil’s breath rushed out of him as if the man’s closeness were a physical force that had collided with his ribs. His lips were dry and his hands had buried themselves in the folds of his robes and Thranduil could not explain it, but he was drawn to this man. Drawn to the smell of earth and fresh water, the strength and courage that had defeated a dragon, the mire on his skin and the eager press of his tongue. 

Then suddenly the warmth of him was gone. “I apologize,” the man gasped. “I fear I have misinterpreted your intentions, My Lord.” He made to step away, but Thranduil stopped him with a hand at the worn collar of his coat. 

“There is nothing to misinterpret, Dragonslayer.” With that Thranduil pulled him close again, revelling in the closeness, the firm press of the mortal body that was so unlike his own. Everything about this man was foreign to him; the tangles in his hair, the streaks of grey at his temples, the cracks in his lips and the scratch of hair on his face. 

Thranduil dug his fingers into the knots at the base of his skull and scratched his nails through the coarse beard at his chin. He pushed aside the leather and fur of his coat, charred in places and still clinging to the icy water of the river. He tugged it from the man’s shoulders to reveal a torn tunic of rough spun fabric. 

He led him, stumbling and gasping to the bed at the rear of his tent, pulling aside layers of poverty and grime until he found the skin of Bard’s chest. Thranduil dropped his cape and pulled his own tunic from his shoulders and laid Bard out across the silks and down of his bed. The man’s chest was marred with bruises and scrapes and scars long- healed. There was sweat on his skin and dirt beneath his fingernails, but Thranduil licked at the base of his throat, delighting in the tang of his taste and basking in the sharp scratches on his back. 

There was a softness in this man’s touch, pulled into sharp relief by the rough callouses of his hands. He sat up and pulled Thranduil close again, bold and brash and completely uncaring for all the unspoken rules that might be broken. Thranduil found himself lost in the divide between the gravel of his voice and the reverent whispers he pressed against his lips. 

Thranduil’s hand found its way to the man’s hair again and he used his grip on Bard’s hair to lay him flat, baring the skin of his neck as a harsh gasp fell from his mouth. He pulled at the man’s trousers, made of crude wool and mended cotton, until they fell free of his flushed cock. The skin of it burned gently in Thranduil’s hand as he began to stroke. 

He had nothing to ease the way, for he had set out from his own realm with the sole thought of war. Never had he anticipated he would be so taken with a mortal man, and yet here he was, kneeling over a dragonslayer. Bard’s work- hardened palms pulled aside his leggings to grip Thranduil’s neglected cock, leaving him breathless and gasping, able to do nothing but tangle his tongue with Bard's and sigh into his mouth.

It was rough and it was fast, but Thranduil greedily swallowed every sound Bard made. He gasped around half- formed words, growling and groaning into Thranduil’s mouth and against the edge of his jaw. It was fast and it was rough but Thranduil greedily swallowed up every sound he made. The man arched up and growled as he came, his teeth sharp at the curve of Thranduil’s jaw.

Hey lay there, boneless and careless, his chest heaving with effort in the aftermath. His hand was still warm on Thranduil’s cock, however, and he tugged and dragged until Thranduil’s own breath stuttered in his chest. 

He collapsed beside the Dragonslayer, watched him pant and stare at the ceiling as he regained his composure. 

“I should see to my children.” He said at length. 

“Yes,” Thranduil agreed. “Whether tomorrow brings peace or war, it is out of our hands now. Sleep well, Dragonslayer. We meet at first light.”

**Author's Note:**

> got a fic idea? [send me an ask](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/ask) and I'll add it to the list!  
> I like to tag [inspiration](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/30-days-of-barduil).  
> you can keep track of my word count on my [novel page](http://nanowrimo.org/participants/ofplanet-earth/novels/30-days-of-barduil) or on my [tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/nanowrimo).


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